


anathema

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: Magnitogorsk is a city of iron, and so is Metallurg’s will. They will not be thwarted, they do not let go of what is theirs.So when one of their own, born, bred, and molded, tries to run? To spit in the face of all that they’ve given him?Metallurg does not give up what it owns.





	1. Chapter 1

**  
** Magnitogorsk is a city of iron, and so is Metallurg’s will. They will not be thwarted, they do not let go of what is theirs. **  
**

So when one of their own, born, bred, and molded, tries to run? To spit in the face of all that they’ve given him?

Well.

Metallurg does not give up what it owns.

The boy is suitably punished.

 

***

 

Sidney waits for him, but Evgeni Malkin doesn’t come, and he doesn’t come.

A year passes, and then another. Sidney is filling the record books: youngest player to reach one hundred points, youngest captain. The list goes on.

Still, he feels like something’s missing. An empty space beside him. He wasn’t supposed to be the only generational talent on this team. He wasn’t mean to rule alone. And he can’t stop wondering, coming back to the idea of him like it’s a magnet, again and again.

Malkin.

And so, after another failed playoff attempt, when he is twenty, he packs light, tells hardly anyone where he’s going, and leaves.

The plane ride to Russian is so long.

 

***

 

They know who he is, of course. They cannot openly refuse him. He is met at every turn with false smiles and obfuscation. Conversations that go in circles. They try to be rid of him.  Offers to be taken to see Russian’s brighter jewels. Moscow, St. Petersburg. When that doesn’t work, they try to distract him with clubs, drink, women. Sid smiles blandly and dumps vodka into potted plants and dodges lipstick-waxy kisses and clouds of cloying perfume. He politely removes bold hands as they try and skate across his body.

“So, do  _you_  know where Malkin is?” he says, every chance he gets. It’s his best Russian phrase, with how often he’s asked it. Eyes dart away from him and tinkling laughs grow brittle and shatter into nothing. They leave him alone when he asks that.

And always, their eyes look a little afraid.

 

***

 

It’s the hunched old man who sweeps the arena floors who finally pulls Sid aside. After, Sid will not even be able to recall what language he spoke. 

“It’s not worth it, boy. If you were wise you would stop this,” the man says, but he looks at Sid’s face, and sighs. “But I can see that you won’t stop until the asking will bring you even greater evil than the truth.”

He leans in, to whisper into Sid’s ear.

 

***

 

The rink at the edge of the city is abandoned. Padlocked doors splashed with layers of graffiti. Broken glass. Sidney nearly cries out when a flock of pigeons burst up and out of the gaping maw of a shattered window. Dust clogs his throat as he shoves his way through piled up furnishings and heaps of mouldering equipment.

But when he reaches the ice, it’s solid— swirling with thick, chill vapor, marred by deep, jagged gouges— but solid.

He pulls on his skates, his breath hanging in the air like fog. He dressed warmly but he still shivers.

He can’t see across the rink from where he sits, the mist rising from the ice is that thick. But he steps out onto the ice anyway. He’s come too far to turn back now.

The rough  _ssskssshhh, ssskssshhh_ of his strokes echo, too loud in the dense silence. His blades wobble on the torn-up surface of the ice.

He’s played shinny on barely safe ponds, he tells himself. This is not so dangerous as that. Still, when he looks down, the ice looks darker than it should, as if it’s much, much thicker than an ordinary rink. The surface is too destroyed to make out what’s painted on the concrete underneath. It doesn’t look right. They aren’t the markings that belong on a rink: face-off circles, blue line, crease. They twist and turn, and they make his stomach hurt a little to look at them too long.

Enough. He raises his eyes, looks to the center of the ice, where the fog swirls thickest. And as he does, the sense that he is not alone sweeps over him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He swallows his fear. No turning back. No turning back.

He moves forward.

Something moves, inside the fog.

A vast, hulking shape solidifies from the mist. The outline of it wrong, wrong, wrong, and his heart beats furious in his ears.

No turning back.

He stops, and it moves towards him, looming out of the fog and the shadows like a nightmare. Something from old, old stories told to frighten children into staying safe in fire and lamplight, away from the dark and the forest.

It huffs, steam curling from its nose, lip lifting away from wicked teeth in a obscene snarl.

But Sidney steps closer. His hands shake but he lifts them to its face, steadies it. Looks deep into the eyes.

Warm, brown, suffering.

And human.

“It’s okay,” he tells the beast as it begins to tremble beneath his hands. “Shhh. I’ve been looking for you for so long.”

Distantly he can hear a sound growing louder, like splintering ice, groaning as it grates upon itself. Something is being shaken loose. Something is letting go.

But he doesn’t turn to look. He leans forward, and rests his forehead against the beast’s.

“I’m here,” he says. “It’s time to go home.“

 

 

  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a character experiencing a panic attack.

 

 

 

It’s so sudden, a moment ago his body his skin he

 

 

He feels flayed open, raw. Everything is bigger, or is he smaller or

 

 

There’s a voice speaking to him.

There’s a lilt to it, a rolling of certain sounds that makes Zhenya think, inexplicably, of waves, and the sea.

His face is contradiction: sharp, soft, dark, light. Everything drawn boldly— jawline, nose. And then the softness of his mouth. The smiling curve of his eyes. A face that is almost too much, but then he tilts his head, the light falls just so, and he is the most beautiful thing Zhenya has ever seen.

Zhenya can’t stop looking at him.

Zhenya’s feet are soft and vulnerable now, and they redden with cold and the ice bruises and cuts them. He stumbles, limbs all different, in the wrong? right? places. He is dizzy.

He’s speaking again, the boy. Or is he a man?

He’s speaking and none of it makes any sense, but Zhenya hears the name he used to have, and the boy smiles when he says it, crooked and beautiful.

Zhenya can’t look away from it, and his foot catches on a chunk of ice. He stumbles, and the boy catches him, easily.

The strength of him. Zhenya is smaller than he was, but he’s still much taller than the boy. But the boy holds him up like he weighs nothing.

Zhenya has the sudden urge to curl into him, bury his face in the boy’s broad shoulder and fold himself small.

No one has touched him in so long.

The boy’s hand is gentle and soothing on his back. He helps him step over rusting debris and shards of glass. They reach a room that Zhenya dimly recognizes. He used to sleep here.

The boy wrinkles his nose, and helps Zhenya lower himself onto one of the benches. He starts pulling at his clothes, removing the soft hoodie he has on and passing it to Zhenya. Zhenya lets  it lie in his lap. He’s not sure how to make his hands move, how to reverse the movement he just saw the boy make.

The boy speaks soothingly to him and puts the hoodie on him, gently guiding his hands through the sleeves. He laughs under his breath when the sleeves are far too short.

Then he frowns, looks around, and says another word Zhenya recognizes.

“Fuck.” The rose-pink mouth twists in a displeased moue. Then he sighs, and starts to pull off his pants.

He’s wearing underwear that look like shorts underneath. Zhenya can’t remember what they’re called. There are little black and yellow birds all over them. What are those.

The boy sees him looking and misunderstands, blushing furiously. He turns his attention to his pants. He holds them up consideringly, then looks from them to Zhenya. His mouth looks even more displeased.

Zhenya wants to—

He wants—

He stares at the boy’s mouth and can’t define what he wants, exactly.

The boy’s whole face is scarlet now and he’s hurriedly pulling off the underwear now, twisting his body away from Zhenya and fumbling to pull the pants back on. His skin is so pale.

Zhenya wants—

Again, he doesn’t know. To keep looking at his smooth skin maybe.

He blinks when the bird underwear is thrust at him. The boy shrugs apologetically and won’t look at him.

It’s logical though, these things are baggy with an elastic waistband that should fit him alright. The pants would have been absurd.

He pulls them on, and clumsily pats the boy’s shoulder. There, there. No need to be so embarrassed.

The boy smiles at him, and helps him stand, pulling Zhenya’s arm over his shoulders so he can help him walk. He’s warm and solid. There’s that urge again, to move into his side and let himself be—

Held.

He lets his head fall, with a sigh. His cheek rests on the boy’s black curls. He smells good, like soap.

Everything about him is good.

 

***

 

There is a walk, and a ride in a car, and a lot of stairs. Zhenya passes all of it in a daze. It is too much. His mind is clearing a little, enough to know what a car even is, how to lift one foot after the other to make his way up the stairs. It’s cleared just enough for Zhenya to know how wrong it is, the fog of his mind, and to be upset by it.

He leans into the beautiful boy and swallows his panic, over and over.

 

***

 

There is a room, and a shower, and different clothes. Soft pants, a shirt with a blue logo on it. A shark? A boat with teeth? The boy helps him curl into the warm, clean bed, and pulls the blankets over him.

The boy is explaining something, with a lot of gesturing. He pretends to shovel something into his mouth.

Food. Zhenya could eat. He’s always hungry. He nods, and it makes the boy’s eyes light up and his smile widen.

Oh, Zhenya thinks, his thoughts crystalizing into words for the first time in a long, long time. I would like to make him do that again. All the time.

The boy hesitates, biting his lip, reddening it. He reaches down to smooth Zhenya’s hair out of his face. Zhenya sighs, and closes his eyes.

Another burst of soft words, footfalls, the sound of the door.

Zhenya sleeps.

 

***

 

When he awakens, he remembers his name. All of it. The boy is back, with a bag that smells deliciously of food. He smiles and says more things and Zhenya stares, and stares, because he knows him.

“Sidney Crosby,” he says, and the boy startles, nearly dropping the takeout containers he’s arranging on the tiny hotel room table.

“Yeah,” the boy says. Then more things in—

English. He’s speaking English.

“Penguins,” Zhenya interjects into whatever Sidney is excitedly babbling about. 

There’s the smile again, wide, happy. Eyes smiling as much as his mouth is. “Yeah,” he says to Zhenya. “Penguins.”

 

***

 

They eat, and when they’re done, Zhenya is filled with a weariness so deep he can do nothing but sink back into the bed, blinking heavily to try and keep his eyes open.

He lets Sidney boss him, pulling him upright and making him go to the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face. Zhenya wants to laugh. He’s as fussy as—

Oh, god. His mother. He staggers, gripping the sink, cup and brush clattering to the floor.

There was a phone in the room. He lurches toward it, picks up the receiver and—

He can’t remember the number.

Hot tears flood his eyes. His breathing speeds up like a train. He curls in on himself, shaking.

Sidney is there, then, taking the phone receiver out of his hand, murmuring gentle nonsense as he soothes a hand down Zhena’s back, over and over.

“My parents,” Zhenya manages to gasp. “My mama. My papa. My brother.”

Sidney must understand some of that, because his eyes widen. He takes Zhenya’s face in his hands again, stares into his eyes. Like he did the first time. And just like that first time, something in him calls to something in Zhenya. He breathes, slow and measured, until Zhenya breathes with him too.

When Zhenya is calmer, Sidney pulls out a phone. After some awkward typing, it says mechanically, in Russian: “Tomorrow we finding the family. I promise.” Zhenya nods. The light is fading outside, and he doesn’t know where to go. He’ll remember tomorrow, or Sid will find them.

It’ll be okay.

Exhausted, he lets Sidney maneuver him into the bed, realizing with a start that there’s only the one bed and that Sidney is pulling the pillows off the other side of it and is making a lot of gestures towards himself and the armchair.

Nonsense.

“No,” Zhenya says, and tugs on his wrist. “No. Okay?” He tugs again, and nods to the other side of the bed.

Sidney blushes, but returns his bedding to its place and slides in, switching off the lamp. Zhenya gives in to the impulse he’s been feeling since the rink. He rolls over, and, making himself small, curls into Sidney’s side.

He feels so warm.

He makes a soft sound, not a word at all, and starts stroking a hand up and down Zhenya’s back again.

He talks. Zhenya hears the word ‘okay,” repeated over and over.

Sidney moves in close. He tugs at Zhenya until he’s turned over, his back to Sidney. Sidney fits himself around him, draping an arm across his waist and pulling him in close.

Zhenya wants to weep with how good it feels. Touch. Gentleness.

“Okay?” Sidney asks softly, sounding unsure. His arm tightens around Zhenya, just for a moment. Like he’s afraid Zhenya will tug himself loose.

Not likely.

“Okay,” he says, and wracks his half-awakened brain for any other words. “Best.”

Sidney huffs a laugh into Zhenya’s hair. “Okay, good.”

It’s going to be alright, Zhenya thinks, as he drifts to sleep. He feels it, deep in his bones. Sidney is holding him close, and tomorrow he’s going to start his life back up again.

He sighs happily, and strokes a sleepy thumb across Sidney’s hand.

Sidney’s mostly asleep. He hums at Zhenya, and Zhenya feels something that might be a kiss brush against his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes up, he remembers his phone number, his mother’s birthday, the color of his father’s eyes and — 

Hockey. Cold rink air, the weight of his pads on his shoulders, the feel of a stick in his hands, like an extension of himself. 

Hockey, and Sidney Crosby. 

It’s enough to make him want to laugh. He’d remembered Sidney’s name before he remembered why he knew it. 

Sidney, who is lying next to him, his brow furrowing as he begins to wake up. He mumbles something Zhenya thinks isn’t even a word in English, or any language. Sidney’s nose wrinkles in protest of the morning sun falling across his face. It’s adorable. 

His eyes blink open. Focus. And he smiles, sweet and gentle. 

 

***

 

Evgeni’s eyes are clearer this morning, and Sid waits for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. 

He’s all soft, tousled hair and warm skin and long limbs. And those dark, dark eyes. When Sid looks, really looks, he is almost startled to notice how long his lashes are. 

Sid was supposed to help him, to wrest him from Metallurg’s grasp. Not... want him. But he looks back at Sid across the bedclothes, and smiles. And it looks fond. 

“I know mama number,” he says, and leans forward. Sid thinks for a heart-stopping moment that he’s going to kiss him. But he doesn’t, he does worse.

He tucks his face into Sidney’s neck, and sighs, his breath warm on Sid's skin. Sid aches.

“Thank you,” Evgeni breathes, and his lips brush Sid’s neck, very like a kiss, after all. 

Sid does as he did in the derelict rink, and trusts his instincts. He winds a hand through Evgeni’s curling hair. 

“It wasn’t right, without you,” Sid tells him. “I didn’t know you, but I missed you.” 

“So, you come for me,” Evgeni murmurs, certain and satisfied. The low rumble of his voice is warm, the tone tender as a caress. 

“I—” Sid says, and cannot speak. He just tips his head, and repeats his action from last night, dropping a kiss into Evgeni’s hair. 

Evgeni hums, and then slowly raises himself up on his arms, gentle wonder writ all over his face as he looks at Sidney.

As Sidney looks back at him, the morning light catches Evgeni's hair and lies soft on the side of his face. Sid can hear the calls of unfamiliar birds outside. There’s a patch of clear blue sky just visible over the strong curve of Evgeni’s shoulder. 

The stories never talk about this, he realizes, the time after. They always stop short. They don’t tell about how uncertain the future can seem as it stretches ahead. They never answer the question, “what comes next?” beyond vague things like, “and then they lived, long and happy.” Lived where? Lived how?”

“Call mama, see family,” Evgeni says, then. He cradles Sidney’s cheek in one big hand, thumb stroking gently, catching the corner of his mouth. “Then, you take me to Penguins. I’m play, with you. Metallurg can’t stop.” 

Of that, Sidney is sure. “No, they can’t have you.” He wraps a hand around Evgeni’s wrist, the words, “you’re  _ mine _ ” dying on his lips. Evgeni is free now, he doesn’t belong to anyone. 

Evgeni smiles, like he knows what Sidney almost said. Like he doesn’t mind at all. 

 

***

 

He’s beautiful and he’s lying there, pliant and sweet in— well. It’s his bed, not Zhenya’s. But he’s practically in Zhenya’s arms, and he  _ came _ for Zhenya. 

He came for Zhenya and all Metellurg’s wrathful curses crumbled before him like dust. He came for Zhenya and brought him back to himself. 

“I think I am going to love you,” Zhenya tells him, smiling even wider at the way he blinks in confusion at Zhenya’s native tongue. 

“What..” Sidney says, and Zhenya cannot help himself. He kisses the little wrinkle of consternation between his eyebrows, then, at his soft, responsive sigh, his mouth. 

In a little while, Zhenya will get up, he will go to his family, and he will begin his life again. But in  _ this _ moment, there is Sidney, and the sun-warm bed, and the rightness of the two of them together.

 

He doesn’t know exactly what the future holds, but he knows it will be beautiful. 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on Tumblr. 
> 
> You can find me as [knifeshoeoreofight](http://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and as @RainyForecast on Twitter. Come say hi!


End file.
